Shadow Mission
by Jee oto ta Huttuk koga
Summary: Prequel to "CA:TWS." The Winter Soldier's mission goes terribly wrong. In the same setting as "The Third Directive" and "Simple Conversation," not necessary to read those.
1. Chapter 1

**Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Moderate dehydration. Mobility 100% of capacity. Defensive capability 100%. Prosthetic arm functional.

He had been in the field for nearly six days, and was going a little…nutty. One of his handlers had used that word when they thought he wasn't listening, but of course he had been. He didn't know why he hadn't discarded the phrase as irrelevant, but it reverberated beneath the surface of his thoughts like an itch. _Going nutty_. He pressed the point of his knee a little harder into the stones and let the discomfort refocus his attention. His prone position on a rocky ridge that overlooked the fortified complex was nearly perfect. The Soldier had covered himself with dust and local plant matter to evade detection from patrolling aircraft, and at a good two miles from his target he was distant enough to avoid being spotted by conventional means.

He lay stretched on his belly like a sunning lizard, completely motionless, with his index finger crooked lightly around the trigger. The tactical mask on his face reduced glare to a minimum. He kept his eye set against the scope and locked onto the narrowly slitted window of the so-called secure compound. The left side of the male target's head was exposed, dipping down every few minutes when he lifted his cup and took a sip of whatever he was drinking. The Soldier's tongue felt sticky and dry in his mouth as he watched. He had been without water for three days. At sunset today, he would have to relinquish his position and locate some before dehydration set in and interfered with his aim.

The sun had begun its slow descent into late afternoon when the female target came into view. She habitually came outside the reinforced walls of the dwelling at some point each day to clip some sprigs from a favorite herb bush in a clay pot a few paces from the doorway. He quickly adjusted his vertical angle for wind and humidity, mentally replotted the parabolic arc that his bullet would take, and slowed his breathing. In the space between heartbeats, he squeezed the trigger.

The jacketed round punched through the reinforced glass. The male target's head was suddenly gone, replaced by a shower of fine scarlet mist. The Soldier ejected the spent casing, and chambered another round. The woman looked up toward the narrow window almost lazily, apparently having heard a noise. Something to her right caught her attention, and she glanced in that direction, her eyebrows furrowed questioningly.

Another heartbeat later, the female target's head exploded.

 **Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE**

In progress.

The Soldier was on his feet with the rifle in his hand before the corpse had finished falling. Although the distance from the complex minimized the likelihood of an enplaced sniper being seen from the ground, it was almost guaranteed that his muzzle flash had already been detected. He ran at a shallow angle along his predetermined escape path to avoid being silhouetted at the top of the ridgeline.

He heard the whine of the incoming rocket before he saw it. There was no time to experience surprise, or to be annoyed that the advance intel had missed a concealed rocket launcher. His heels dug into the thin layer of soil and his hands scrabbled across the tops of the exposed rocks as he changed direction and crested the top of the ridge. Once exposed, he dropped and attempted a controlled roll down the steeper blind side of the hill.

An almost comically soft "whump" sounded behind him and the top of the ridge shattered. The blast blew him into the air inside a jagged cascade of tons of broken rock and clouds of pulverized dust. He tucked his body into a tight ball to avoid being struck by as much airborne debris as he could, but his exposed skin burned. He needed his metal arm to mitigate his landing, and squashed the impulse to cover his face with it. Something struck his mask hard enough to drive the padded rim against his eyebrow, and blood gushed into his eye.

He had no idea how far he had been thrown, but when he felt his body begin to descend, he angled his prosthetic toward the ground in hopes of absorbing some of the impact. But he still hit hard, felt himself bounce and slam. There was no air, he couldn't breathe…pain blazed along his back and both legs, and all was bright light. He clung to consciousness just long enough to know that he had stopped moving and was still alive.

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

It hurts it hurts _it hurts_

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Un…unknown.

The sky was purple above his face. It shouldn't have been purple because his mask had such an efficient ultraviolet filter. His eyes were gritty and sore, but he blinked several times and looked again. The sky was still soft purple and faded to black as it stretched toward the horizion. Several clear, bright stars peppered the darkness, and there were only thin wisps of gray clouds. There was no moon in his field of vision. When he tried to turn his head to find it, agony blossomed and he almost lost consciousness again.

Don't you dare pass out!

He gritted his teeth as translucent spots burst through his sight. His breath came fast and shallow, and he could not slow it down at all. Clammy sweat prickled inside his armored uniform.

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Airway uncompromised. Probable shock. Mobility unknown. Defensive capability minimal.

The Soldier flexed the fingers of his prosthetic left arm and was rewarded with the familiar soft whirs and shifting noises of the mobile plates. Without looking, he twitched his right hand, and slowly rotated his wrist. It moved heavily and was covered in something sticky, but it moved on command.

 **Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE**

In progress.

Helicopter rotors thrummed in the distance. He had no illusions about what would happen if they found him. He balled his fists and pulled himself up and then he was screaming and his vision exploded into red.

 **Directive One: CONDITION REASSESSMENT**

Multiple vertebral displacement, probable fractures. Significant impairment. Mobility 8% of normal. Defensive capability minimal.

He shuffled a boot through the concave impression of his body in the pulverized rock dust, obliterating his outline and breaking up the crust of blood that had soaked into the ground. Then he held his breath and took a step to measure his stride. It was only an unimpressive ten inches, but he would use what he had. Partially exposed rocks and hard rubble were his stepping stones over the debris field, and he was careful to leave almost no signs of his passage.

About fifty feet away he found the shattered remains of his tactical mask. The sky had been purple and strange-looking because his mask had been ripped from his face and he had been viewing it without the glare filter. The broken plastic with its jagged edges was too potentially useful to pass up. He bent his knees and after a blind eternity of pain his fingers found the mask, and he managed to straighten. He did not have the energy to reach around to cache the mask safely in a pocket, could not spare it. It dangled from his bloodied fingers as he hobbled across the stones in the growing twilight.


	2. Chapter 2

There were two general types of aerial reconnaissance. If the searchers did not know who they were looking for, they would travel in spirals or in regular grid patterns that were easily predictable. If they had intelligence that they were looking for a highly-trained assassin who possessed nearly superhuman endurance, they would extend their search over a greater radius, and would be using heat-seeking scopes and tighter search patterns. Observation showed readily that the troops searching for him had no idea who they were looking for, or of his abilities. In fact, calling them "troops" was probably too generous. They appeared to be little more than marginally efficient, heavily-armed goons, except for the rocket launcher, and those weren't even particularly difficult to obtain. It might have been mounted just days ago, by someone reading an instruction booklet. He could hear the faraway chopper turn lazily and zig-zag back toward the compound, exactly the same as the previous two helicopters that had flown over over the area.

He was under cover for the moment, propped up in a tangle of blackberry canes at the bottom of a stable rock face. It was not the right season for berries, but the thicket had plenty of leaves and the remains of dried white flowers, their clinging petals rattling like paper on their stems. The vegetation provided concealment, while the brambles would discourage wildlife. He didn't remember much about how he'd gotten there, but that was not really anything new.

 **Directive One: CONDITION REASSESSMENT**

Dehydration approaching severe levels. Spinal injuries significant. Mobility 6% of normal. Defensive capability minimal.

His need for water was becoming desperate, but if he could rest in the shade and give his body a chance to heal, even a little, the probability of being able to reach the rendezvous point would be increased enough to make taking the time worthwhile. He lay on his side and curled up as much as he could, ignoring the pain. The ground was carpeted with a layer of loose leaf detritus, and he scratched through it with the fingers of his flesh hand, testing for any trapped moisture. If he had been in better condition, he might have tried to dig a hole and let any water seep into it. Instead, he brought a little of the damp dirt to his mouth and sucked it. His enhanced immune system had little to fear from soil, so he repeated the action, drawing what little water there was from mouthfuls of earth and decayed leaves and spitting out the remainder until his mouth felt better.

 _Going nutty_. Those words were there again, even though he wasn't supposed to be thinking about things like that. The handler had said that he was getting tired of waiting for Command to bring down the mission documentation, and that he was going…a little nutty. The Soldier hadn't understood the phrase, but the context had indicated some instability, which he did understand. He'd remembered them, though now he didn't recall why.

A fly buzzed at the layer of dried blood that had flowed from the gash above his eyebrow, but he did not move. It was more important to avoid unnecessary movement than to swat an annoying insect. Instead, he mentally tallied his remaining weapons. He could feel the handle of his left boot knife press into his skin when he flexed his calf. The rigid sheath on his right leg was still in place, but it was empty. The rifle had been lost amid the flying debris during the missile impact, but the pistol was still reassuringly heavy against his hip, and the concealed pockets of ammunition poked into his waist and along the side of his thigh that was pressed against the ground. The reinforced sleeve of his upper-body armor held two long, flexible blades that could be pulled from their stitched compartments. Those had no handles, but they could be utilized as makeshift cutting tools as well as killing blades. Even the thread stitching in that sleeve was reinforced with microscopically thin wires that could be pulled loose and used to sever a hand or possibly a neck, under the right circumstances. He still felt the…

" _How many weapons, Soldier?" the trainer's tone was imperative, but not harsh._

 _He had been positioned on his stomach, with his hands cuffed behind his back. The blindfold was damp with sweat. He counted all the weapons he could feel while keeping his body completely motionless. "Six."_

…grappling hook still secured in its cylinder against the middle of his back…

" _Five." The response was heavy with reproach. This particular trainer never struck him for mistakes, and rarely even raised his voice, but the Soldier held back a huff of frustration._

…and the long coils of slender but sturdy cord woven through the lining of his vest. His ribs hurt and his back injury was distracting him. He blew a slow breath through his lips as he controlled the pain and continued his inventory. He was supposed to have an eraser-sized piece of untagged Semtex concealed against his right shoulder but he could not feel it at all. The soft plastic might have deformed when he'd hit the ground, he'd have to check later…

 _Strong hands flipped him unresisting onto his back and rearranged the objects concealed on his body, adding some or subtracting others for the next exercise. Then he was rolled back onto his belly._

" _How many weapons, Soldier?"_

Footsteps trampling through the light brush and leaf carpet snapped his attention to a sudden laser focus.


	3. Chapter 3

**Directive Two: EVADE CAPTURE**

In progress.

 **TACTICAL EVALUATION**

Three targets, two male, one female. T1 and T3 armed with AKM automatic rifles. Hip holsters containing pistols, probably .45 caliber. Holster on T2 containing lighter sidearm. Threat level moderate.

He slid the knife out of its sheath in his left boot with his prosthetic hand, and silently folded his fingers around the familiar grip of his pistol in his right. They were making no attempt to hide the noise as they crashed through the underbrush. He kept his breathing soundless and shallow, and watched them through his eyelashes.

"What makes you so sure he came this way?" one of the men asked, pushing back his cap.

The woman looked up with an expression that stopped just short of an annoyed eye-roll. "I'm not sure. But given the rock face on one side and the dry valley on the other, this is the only way the sniper _could_ have come, or the 'copters would have spotted him by now."

Despite his earlier assessment of his pursuers' skill, the Soldier was impressed with T3's reasoning. This was someone who could use her head. Although the men did not comment, he could tell from their faces that they were impressed as well. After a few moments, the second man asked, "No one could have survived that rocket, could they?"

"I don't know. It was weird… No body parts, no scrap, no nothing. Not even a shred of torn clothing in the debris field. He had been set up on the hillside… we found the outline of where he had been laying. But other than that, not even a bent twig. It's just not what I would have expected." She pursed her lips thoughtfully and scanned the brush. "Something isn't right." She unlatched a closure at her hip and raised a radio transceiver. "I'm calling for the dog team."

 _His first lessons in defense against canines had been simple. He had been tethered by the ankle and attack dogs were set on him until he had neutralized them all or had been too injured to continue. Learning to evade detection had come much later. In any case, it was better to prevent the deployment of canines than to have to deal with them at all._

In his current physical condition, he could probably make only one viable assault, so he had to work fast.

He pushed hard against the ground with the prosthetic arm and launched his body into the air. He flicked his wrist and his knife became a dark, spinning blur until it planted nearly to its hilt in the throat of T1. The man went down gurgling and clutching at the edge of his severed windpipe. Before the remaining targets had a chance to raise their weapons, or even to turn completely around, the Soldier fired his pistol nearly point-blank into each of their heads. They dropped like broken training dummies. His boots thumped hard onto the ground, and he landed with his pistol already trained onto the dying man with the blade buried in his neck. T1 twisted feebly at his feet, but it was all reflex. That one had already bled out, or would soon. There was no point in wasting another bullet.

His right arm and side were coated in a fine sheen of high-velocity blood spatter. His tongue hurt, and he realized that it was clamped firmly in his teeth. He swiped the back of his left hand through the crimson on his face, no longer entirely his own, feeling shaky and lightheaded as his adrenaline began to ebb. His spine burned like fire, and his right leg felt heavy and numb. But he had to get to a safer place before another group stumbled onto him.

The woman's transceiver crackled. "Team One? What the hell is going on there, Cothren?"

The woman's thumb had toggled the call button on her radio, and had locked it into place as she went down. The unit was nestled in her hand, the line wide open. Grimacing as he squatted down beside her, he carefully pried the radio from her grip, being careful to keep the button pressed. A quick scan of the dead men gave him a name from the embroidered tape on a uniform. "This is Naylor."

"Naylor! Have you seen anything?"

"Nothing so far," he drawled into the handset, doing his best imitation of the man he'd heard ask about the rocket attack.

"Yeah, well you guys had better end Cothren's goose chase and get back. The situation is pretty FUBAR here, if you know what I mean."

"Roger that. Out." He released the call button. As useful as listening in on their radio chatter might have been, the unit easily could have held a tracker, and he wouldn't give anyone a free ping to his actual location. He shifted the radio into his left hand and hurled it with everything he had back in the direction from which the search group had come. The device whizzed through the air, tumbling end over end, until it disappeared from sight. There wasn't much time. He plucked his knife out of the dead man's throat, and wiped it carefully on a cloth pantleg before slipping it back into its sheath on his calf.

Each of the dead "soldiers" had been carrying a canteen. Although his body begged for water, he shook them gently to determine how much each one contained, and poured the fullest one over his hands. Most of the fresh blood washed away, and he wiped them dry on a camouflage jacket. He did the same to his boots. It wouldn't be enough to fool the sensitive nose of a search dog, but he didn't intend to leave visible blood smears to show a human which direction he had taken. One of the rifles looked to have been better maintained than the others, and finding that it still had a full clip, he slipped the carrying strap over one shoulder. Only then did he allow himself a few deep swallows of the precious water. He shouldered both of the remaining canteens as well, deciding to leave the now empty one.

The rock face behind the blackberry canes seemed stable enough for a free climb. He grasped for a handhold, but his vision collapsed into red and black and gold. Clenching his teeth around a pained moan, he leaned against the cool stone surface until he could draw breath again. Climbing was going to hurt, but there was no other way. Using his left hand this time, he stabbed his unfeeling metal fingers into a crevice between two rocks, and tested it to make sure it would hold his weight. He lifted his left leg, set the toe of his boot onto a slight protrusion, and hauled himself up. When his soft moan diminished and he could see again, he reached again with his prosthetic left arm, carved out another grip, and pulled. Inch by painful inch, he scaled the broken rock face until he was some sixty feet off the ground, level with some of the thicker branches of the surrounding trees.

He needed to plan carefully at this point. He was breathing heavily, and could feel the cold, nauseous edge of shock seeping into him. Holding himself steady with his left arm, he fished the cylindrical grapple from its pocket at the back of his tactical vest and spooled a length of line from its concealed channel in his armored torso. He locked it with a quick twist of his hand, and deployed the hook array by depressing a hidden stud. Estimating the distance carefully, he flung the grapple across the space between the rock wall and the tree trunk, feeling the satisfying solid "thunk" as it hooked the trunk about six feet over his head. The line angled upward now, and was secure. All that remained was to jump.

He took several shallow breaths and leaped.


	4. Chapter 4

**Directive …**

 _Can't breathe…It hurts, it hurts, it hurts_

… **CONDITION …**

 _A blank space shaped like a name, where a face should be. Help me..._

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Going nutty?

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Regaining consciousness.

The sunlight filtered translucent pink through his closed eyelids. When he opened them with difficulty, he saw first that the sun had moved only a little since the last time he'd observed it; perhaps less than half an hour had elapsed since he'd blacked out. He'd tried to keep track of the distance he'd travelled through the tree canopy, but the count had become difficult and fuzzy after about the third mile. He vaguely remembered making that last jump from branch to branch. His boots had landed solidly, but disoriented from pain and dehydration, he had missed his grip and toppled backward into empty air. For some reason his last fleeting thought had been to dread a shatteringly hard landing across rocks and snow.

The slender rappelling line had caught him, and he dangled from where it stretched from the catchplate on his chest armor to a raw gouge of yellow wood where the grapple had anchored into the trunk of a tall evergreen. He closed his eyes and forced himself to extend his senses and to concentrate. There were no sounds except the quiet background hum of insects and wind that would be expected in a wooded area. He smelled only moss and pine and cool greenery. Satisfied for the moment that no humans were in the area, he snaked his metal left hand across his body to one of the canteens on his hip. With extreme care, he unsnapped the canvas sling and slipped the bottle free. His flesh hand shook as he unscrewed the cap, but he did it without dropping it. The water was tepid and tasted strongly of plastic, but once he started drinking it, he couldn't stop. He didn't even really breathe until he had shaken the last drop into his parched mouth.

 **Directive Three: REPORT TO RENDEZVOUS POINT**

Complying.

The clumps of needled foliage at the tops of the pine trees was thick enough for concealment, but when he looked straight down, he had a reasonably clear view of the area beneath him. He did a quick position estimate based on his best guess of the distance he'd gained and the topography he could see. Making twenty miles or more to the rendezvous point on foot with his injuries posed an unacceptable risk of capture. Procuring an alternate source of transportation elevated the risk of discovery and pursuit, but there wasn't much alternative. If he was quick and chose his target carefully, he might be able to get to the rendezvous point and disappear before anyone knew any better.

He knew from the maps and aerial surveillance images he'd been shown at the mission briefing that he was fairly close to an access road that led to the fortified compound. He'd already encountered one patrol, albeit outside of a prescribed search pattern. He supposed that there might be more traffic on the road now, if the earlier radio conversation was to be believed. If he was going to have any options at all, he had to go where the possibilities were, and that wasn't up in this tree.

Climbing down was much easier than climbing up had been. He used his thumb and forefinger to pinch the dual toggling mechanism, and slowly paid out line to control his descent. When he reached the ground, and after he had taken a moment to make sure he was going to stay on his feet, he gave the cord a hard ripple and a jerk. The grappling array retracted forcefully back into its cylindrical shape with a muffled "snap," and he had only to reel it in through the protruding branches.

The brief rests, both voluntary and involuntary, had improved his condition. Walking was somewhat easier, although he had to stop frequently and his skin felt clammy inside his ballistic armor. He was still coated in dried blood, and each time he paused to rest against the trunk of a tree, he scraped off as much of it as he could to discourage the flies and gnats.

 _There's no such thing as a free lunch… unless you're one of these bugs._

His brow creased and his hands stilled. Meaningless, intrusive thoughts meant that he was losing focus, and would start making mistakes. He had to get to the rendezvous point before going nutty got him killed. No… before the intrusive thoughts caused critical instability. Not "going nutty."

 _There, take that._

He sighed in annoyance, yet another sign that he was becoming erratic. There was no more time for rest breaks. A slightly shambling walk was his best sustainable speed at the moment, but he intended to maintain it all the way to the road, which he estimated to be four miles to the southeast.

* * *

 **AN: Short chapter. This was a logical stopping place in advance of the next bit.**


	5. Chapter 5

_The Captain rides in a jeep…  
_ _You're right!_

Where did that come from?

 _The Sergeant rides in a truck…  
_ _You're right!_

I heard that somewhere, I think.

 _The General rides in a car…  
_ _You're right!_

Stop that.

 _But you all have to walk…  
_ _You're right!_

The Soldier slapped his palm against the side of his head a few times, as if to empty himself of the meaningless rhythmic rhyme. It had just bubbled up out of nowhere, like the other random thoughts that were beginning to interfere with his concentration.

 **Directive Three: REPORT TO RENDEZVOUS POINT**

Complying.

The sight of the road finally cleared the nonsense out of his thoughts. It had been described on the charts as a "road," but it was actually a cracked and potholed stretch of light pavement, barely wide enough to allow two vehicles to pass. If one of them was a truck, someone would have to pull over. He crouched into the protective shadow cast by a fallen log, ignoring the pain signals from his back and legs, and allowed himself another sip of water from the second canteen. He watched the road, listening hard and feeling the ground with his vibration-sensitive prosthetic hand to detect approaching traffic. Two open-topped light transports flashed past, making considerable speed along the access road to the fortified compound area. There was nothing else for fifteen minutes.

One of those… _jeeps_ … would be perfect. A shot to a drive tire or to the engine block would stop one, but then it might be damaged too badly to for him to drive. That meant he would have to lure out as many passengers as he could. If he could block the road somehow, that might solve the problem. Felling a tree across the road was a potential solution, but the only cutting tools he had were his knife and the thin blades concealed in his armor sleeve. There was the plug of Semtex in his shoulder pocket, of course, but a detonation near a traffic artery would cause its own problems. Besides the noise, he wasn't certain enough of controlling the blast to make sure a tree would fall where he wanted. Semtex was highly effective, but it wouldn't be the best tool for this job. A newly cut stump might be an advertisement that the blockade was a trap, anyway.

Then he noticed the log next to him. He touched it lightly at first, then pressed his metal hand against it to test the strength of the wood. It creaked and some of the bark peeled off, but it seemed sound enough. It was light enough roll or to drag, if he could find a reasonable place to grasp it, and it would be easy to clear out of the way once he had overtaken a vehicle. There was no way to know how much time he would have to set up his trap, so he would have to be quick. He set his metal shoulder against the log and heaved. His jaw ground as his broken spine flexed and cracked, and for a moment he wondered whether he would be able to move it. But a few seconds later, the fallen trunk lurched and shifted. He pressed harder, biting the inside of his mouth to stifle a scream. Part of the trunk shimmied and snapped off a few feet from the broken end, but it was easier to roll after that.

He positioned the log at a slight angle across the road, and used a few broken branches to sweep away the trail of splinters and dirt that marked his efforts. He tossed those casually onto the log, and limped to the other side of the road where there was a little more cover. Then he unslung the rifle from his shoulder, dropped to one knee, and raised the weapon to the most sustainable firing position he could find.

About ten minutes later, he detected the sound of an engine.

 _ **TACTICAL EVALUATION**_

Four targets, all male. Armament on driver not visible, assume at least a sidearm. 50-caliber-turrent mounted weapon, secured for transportation, currently unmanned. Two passengers armed with AKM assault rifles. Armament on third passenger not visible, possibly gunner for mounted weapon. Threat level moderate.

There was considerable groaning and swearing from the passengers as the vehicle approached the blockade and slowed to a halt. "You've got to be kidding!" the driver spat, smacking the steering wheel in frustration.

"No big deal," said one of the others. "We'll just move it. Come on, it won't take long with all four of us."

The passenger who had no obvious weapons shook his head and stood. The Soldier noticed a holster on the man's hip. "Three of you." The man released the retaining mechanism on the turret and took his place behind the mounted weapon. "Cothren thinks there is some indestructible nut running loose out here, and she's right more often than she's wrong. I'll cover you."

That was a useful piece of information. No one had yet discovered the group he had ambushed and neutralized earlier.

There was some grousing about taking advice from a woman, but no one actively disputed the claim that she was usually right. The driver and the two other passengers dismounted the vehicle, and gathered to examine the log. "This isn't too bad," the driver said, looking a little less dour. "It's half rotten. Let's…"

A jet of blood erupted from the center of the gunner's chest as a burst of rifle fire jolted him like a marionette. His finger reflexively pressed the trigger of the 50-cal as he slumped, and a few rounds rocketed harmlessly into the sky. Two of the men at the log managed to squeeze off a few random shots before the Soldier mowed them down as well. The driver was still scrabbling to free his pistol when two bullets obliterated his cranium.

The Soldier quickly piled all of the rifles and pistols into the back seat of the vehicle, and heaved the gunner's corpse off the back. He quickly checked the wheel wells and visually inspected the undercarriage for tracking devices. Finding only one, he tore it loose and discarded it, then set about removing the roadblock. There was no reason to keep the log intact any longer, so he quickly tore it to manageable pieces with his prosthetic arm and threw them aside. He was feeling weak and clammy again by the time he had finished and levered himself wearily into the driver's seat. Another swallow of water, and then he urged the vehicle to full speed, crushing the remains of the rotting wood under the tires.

The breeze revived him a little as he accelerated, whipping his hair around his face. He calculated that he would be able to reach the rendezvous point in less than an hour, assuming that he met no obstacles.


	6. Chapter 6

He made excellent progress by pushing the transport to highway speeds, but the marginally-maintained road surface took its toll. Driving required less energy expenditure than walking had, but the constant swerving and bouncing over the uneven fissures and potholes was excruciating. His hands were locked white-knuckled onto the steering wheel, and he stared glassily straight ahead. There was only the gray ribbon stretching before him, only the road and he'd been driving forever…

 _What'cha worrying for buddy? I got my license out of a perfectly good box of Cracker Jack!_

He gasped and jerked the wheel savagely, correcting the drift that had almost taken him off the edge of the pavement. The sole of his boot slammed nearly flush against the floorboard and the speedometer needle buried itself at the far side of the indicator. He had to get to the extraction location before hypovolemic shock deteriorated his physical condition into unconsciousness.

It never occurred to him that he might die.

By the time he reached the checkpoint and slowed to guide the vehicle into the concealing brush, he was shivering with chill in spite of the warm sun. Even sliding out of the driver's seat was difficult. His legs were like lead, but he made them carry him to the back of the transport. He gathered all of the rifles and pistols he had collected from the patrols on the road and slung the ones with straps over his right shoulder. The pistols were looped securely into his belt. His heart hammered with the exertion, and he swayed heavily against the raised side of the vehicle to catch his breath. Finally, he undid the support gussets on the pedestal, then unlatched the 50-caliber machine gun from its cradle and balanced it carefully across his metal shoulder.

His orders were to approach the rendezvous point from the northeast. He made no particular attempt at stealth. Even if he could have managed it, there wasn't any point. He didn't need to hear blaring alarms to know that he had triggered multiple motion sensors, and he didn't need to see weapons to feel them already trained on him. The last of his dwindling endurance kept him upright as he entered the designated extraction location.

To the untrained eye, the rendezvous point appeared to be no more than a recreational campsite. A long, tan trailer dominated the cleared center area. Its windows were obscured with smoky-colored shielding that allowed no view into its interior from any angle. A red and white full-size pickup truck had been unhitched from the trailer and was parked on the west side of the site. A slim man with thinning brown hair raised himself from a folding lounge chair and greeted him with a smile. "Hello! You seem to be a long way from home."

The correct reply to the coded phrase leapt into his brain, even though it had not been there even a second ago. "Я турист," he answered automatically. "Я здесь, чтобы увидеть каньон." _I am a tourist. I came to see the canyon._

The genial smile remained in place, but the tone became businesslike. "Disarm."

 **TACTICAL EVALUATION**

Defensive calculations suspended. Obedience required.

 _He had turned the pistol onto his instructor, but was betrayed by the "click" of an empty chamber. The armed guards grasped their batons and advanced grimly as his expression melted into horror._

The Soldier let the unwieldy machine gun slide from his shoulder and guided it gently to the ground at his feet. The rifle slings were gathered into one hand, and set down beside the heavier weapon. He clumsily thumbed the heavy catches on his belt and dropped it, attached pistols and all, in a heap. After a moment's difficulty raising his arms, he unfastened the retainer at his throat, and began the process of stripping off his body armor and the rest of his small armaments. The handler watched dispassionately, offering no assistance. The sunlight edged his sight in shimmering waves that danced with the pounding of his pulse by the time he stood barefoot, wearing only the one-piece body suit that kept the armor from digging too deeply into his skin. He took the obligatory three steps to the right, away from the pile. Then he noticed that his hobbled steps had taken him only a short distance from the weapons, and took another three. He was out of easy reach of the rifles, and hoped the distance was sufficient.

"Report."

He didn't know why the man's voice should trigger a stomach cramp; he was suddenly on the verge of being violently sick.

 **Directive One: CONDITION ASSESSMENT**

Fractured vertebrae, undetermined extent of damage. Airway currently uncompromised. Extensive blunt trauma to midsection, probable internal bleeding. Probable hypovolemic shock. Mobility approximately 12% of capacity. Defensive capability unknown. Prosthetic arm functional.

A few garbled sounds came out of his mouth, startling him into silence. He wasn't sure whether he had spoken in English or in Russian or in some distorted version of either. He took a shallow breath to steady himself, and tried again. "Targets eliminated. Awaiting confirmation. Condition… c…"

He would have provided the required report, if the ground hadn't whirled up and slammed into his face.

Impacts stung as he was slapped back to consciousness. Something bit hard into the bare flesh of his right forearm, and something else jabbed and burned as it pierced the side of his neck. He caught a glimpse of plastic tubing. His body grew boneless and heavy, and little by little, he began to float above the screaming river of pain. Was he the one making all the noise? He couldn't move, but he had surrendered, and didn't need to. The handler was talking to someone else, something about a medivac to the forward unit, and to exercise Protocol Six because the Asset was restrained, but erratic.

 _So I did go nutty. HYDRA will help me, they will fix me and stop these unproductive thoughts. I can't do my part if I can't control myself._

 _Hail, HYDRA._

* * *

 **AN: So ends the "pre-CA:TWS" experiment. Hope you liked it!**


End file.
